


The Things in the Dark

by LizzieHarker



Series: The Arrowsverse [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Boys Kissing, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky remembering, Cryofreeze (Marvel), First Kisses, M/M, Not Without You anthology, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Truth or Dare, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, bucky pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-10
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-12-13 12:40:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11760093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizzieHarker/pseuds/LizzieHarker
Summary: *Written for NOT WITHOUT YOU: A Stucky Anthology*Bucky's never dreamed while in cryo, but Bucky hadn't started remembering before now. And who should he talk to but Steve? Words aren't easy while awake, but in sleep, Bucky can pick through his tattered, healing brain and try to make sense of what he's become.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I broke this up because I personally hate 9k word block text long-form story telling, but to be honest, it was hard to separate. It might actually flow better as one giant fic, but I know there's an option to let you read the whole thing, so choose that if you'd like. :)

If there’s one thing I’ve learned, Steve, it’s that brains are dumb, bodies are useless, and memories lie.

Okay, I know that’s three things. Shut up.

It’s strange to be conscious.

I read about you, about when you sank that plane into the Arctic.

Before I started remembering, before you punched through seventy years of brainwashing with six little words, my life happened in flashes.

Make that four things: words have power.

It’s weird, pal, like being two places at once, like . . . shit, lucid dreaming? That’s what they call it, right? Part of you’s awake and watching, but you’re not in control of what’s happening around you. I guess that’s what happens when you break.

I used to live for those dark, short-lived slices of death when they shoved me back into cryo. And then I started dreaming. Do you know how unsettling it is to start seeing faces? Hearing voices? Shit, Stevie, the soldier had no fucking clue. Hydra didn’t program me that way.

Don’t start in with the “you’re not him” crap. I _am_ him. He’s me. You know it because they did the same thing to you, shot you up with their magical serum and turned you into the poster boy for liberty.

And bonds.

While they dressed you up and made you do song and dance numbers with pretty dames, Hydra strapped me to a table, beat me, electrocuted me, sank their claws into my skull and poisoned me, ruined me.

Now, now, I can hear ya as clear as if you were standing next to me: “No, Buck, you’re not that person. Not anymore.”

Stevie, you sweet, naive punk. I was always that person, same as you’ve always been you. That’s what they did; they made us more of what we already were. You’ve always been reckless, loyal, fierce; always stood up for the little guy even though you were the littlest, bird-boned savior Brooklyn raised. They rebuilt you to house all that glorious fire.

They didn’t turn me, Stevie. They seized my anger. My jealousy. I loved you as much as I envied you, and that’s why they took me back after you sprung me. What’s a better weapon than that? What’s a sharper, deadlier knife than love?

*

It’s a small room I live in now. No windows, no doors. All right, it’s not really a room. I’m stuck in my skull, and it drives me batty because I never know if the dark will remain the same or if the nightmares will come crawling back. Sometimes the room’s the vault Hydra kept me in. I feel the chair, the table, the restraints. The shock pads and wires. It’s frostbite and agony and a metallic rind I can’t get out of my mouth. Sometimes it’s our tiny apartment in Brooklyn. Sometimes I hear the sound of your pencils on the page, and, God, I love it.

Sometimes I think that’s the crueler of the two.

That’s where they started.

_Longing._

Feels like a strike to the gut, leaves me winded. They got me all twisted up, can’t remember what’s real and what’s not. Say it, think it; I hear the crack of a baseball bat, the crowds cheering, feel the weight of the rifle at my back. Screams. Gunpowder coating my tongue.

The worst part about not being your own man is all things you find you enjoy. The things you want change. Once the war began, I never really felt like myself without a weapon in my hand. My vision dominated by crosshairs. The smell of frost, snow, blood.

Without my gun, I was restless. Without a purpose, without orders, I was restless. They exploited so much of me I couldn’t tell what had been there before or had come after.

And after. Every time I woke up I found myself someplace different. Another city, another time. Decades flew by when I closed my eyes. I don’t remember all of it.

That’s a lie.

I remember the worst parts. They linger. They stain.

Stevie, you know how you said I could beat this? That I was strong enough to survive? You might be right. That longing stayed with me. It woke me up. Brought back all those urges to protect. Hydra wiped me every time, snatched up another memory and twisted it.

There’s a memory of us, buried under all the blood and bodies. We’re sitting in that dingy apartment, and you’re upset because I enlisted and you keep being turned away. Always trying to save the little guy. Always trying to save me. I heard later that you’d asked to join the 107th. Part of me wishes you had. I missed my best friend, and without you picking fights, I had nothing to do between missions. What did you do without me around to save your scrawny ass?

Right. You made them take you on. And then you came after me.

The way Hydra rewrote the script, it wasn’t you who found me but the great Captain America. The playing field wasn’t even anymore: your light was too bright, and they’d already ruined me. The foundation was solid. Honestly, I’m surprised I didn’t turn green from all the jealousy. Suddenly you were this hero, this shining example of justice, and everyone hung on your every word.

I didn’t hate you for being you. I hated everyone else for finally seeing what I’d always known was there. All that light, and you left me behind in the shadows. You had your suit, your dame, your chance to fight. God, Stevie, all I wanted was to go home, back to our one-room in Brooklyn, back to breaking up alley fights, back to how things used to be. Once Hydra looked into my head, they found a minefield. They seized that longing and corrupted it. 

That’s not how they broke me, though. What came next, that’s so much worse.

*

Even killing machines eventually break down. The works get all gummed up, the wires fail. As much as I hate them, Steve-and believe me, I hate them almost as much as I hate myself-without Hydra, that’s exactly what I’d be. Defunct. Withered. _Rusted_.

Longing’s a cheap shot; rusted is the onslaught. It’s an endless string of fights I can’t win, the shock of cold. Back in the day, like way back, like nineteenth century back, asylums used to do this hydrotherapy thing. They’d strip you and dump your ass in a tub of ice and hose you down and hold you there until you were calm, or cured, or whatever the hell they thought you needed to be. I think I’d have been lucky to get a tub.

There was a basin. 

They’d hold me under, disable the metal arm, their gift. Let me thrash and scream until I choked, then throw me onto the floor and break my ribs. I hate the water, Steve. That frozen river, the one that cost me my left arm, the ice baths that cost me everything else. It was too much to hope that if I resisted, if I fought back-and I did fight, harder than anything-that I’d win out.

They only asked me one question: who are you?

When it started, I was Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes of the 107th.

Wrong answer.

The punishment never stopped. The question never stopped. When I was past exhaustion, past agony (because when everything hurts, nothing does), I wanted them to hold me under and let me drown. You know by now, Stevie, that Hydra doesn’t do mercy. It was easier to give up because I knew they wouldn’t let it end. They corroded my sense of self. I think, for a minute there, I hallucinated. Someone shouted for me to take their hand.

I heard metal grinding.

My new left arm kicked into life. It’s heavy. Dragged at my shoulder, which hurt like hell, fire and knives where the rest of me ached. I’d have taken all the Victorian ice baths if it woulda spared me from Hydra-therapy.

I don’t know how long it took, but James Buchanan Barnes didn’t walk out of that room.

The soldier did.

Even then, the beatings didn’t stop. The question, though, it changed. They stopped asking who I was. They asked if I was ready to comply.

_Yes_ came so easily it makes me sick. I no longer wanted it to end. I knew it wouldn’t. So I surrendered.

Are you disappointed, Steve? Of course not. “You did what you had to, Buck. They crushed down with everything they had, and you still beat them.”

What if it had been you? The scrappy kid from Brooklyn, not Captain America. What if it had been you on the table? You never did know when to give up. They’d have snapped you in half, and if you managed to keep breathing, you’d still go at them. Me? I covered my head with my hands and let the blows fall. That one _yes_ outweighed a thousands _no_ s, and here we are. I know you’re desperate to have your friend back, Steve, but I’m not the Bucky you knew.

I’m no longer the soldier.

I’m somewhere between.

And you’re watching what’s left corrode.


	2. Chapter 2

“I got an idea,” you said. We were at my house, the couch cushions piled on the floor. My pop wasn’t keen on the idea of us sharing them. Said it wasn’t right, boys our age. _Seventeen_. But I did it anyway. It took the world to convince you to come over after your mom died, but I knew you’d relent. Always did. I shoulda known, shoulda learned by then that any idea you had was trouble.

Who am I kidding? Trouble’s the reason we were friends in the first place. 

So there we were, on the floor, under the blankets, and you had this brilliant idea. “Truth or dare?” you asked.

“Truth,” I said.

“You and that Etta gal getting serious?”

“No more than me and Ruth, or me and Betty, or me and . . . hell, what was her name? We went to the dance hall last week.” I can’t for the life of me remember that girl’s name.

You snorted. “I’m impressed you got that far. And I don’t know her name. I stayed home, remember?”

“Right, right. Truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

“Typical,” I said, shoving into your shoulder. “How do you feel about me setting up these double dates?”

You gave me the flattest stare. “I hate them. You know that.”

“You haven’t said a word, Stevie. I ain’t a mind reader. You don’t wanna go, why let me drag you out?”

“Because you want to go! You don’t get a bad deal, pal. At the end of the night, you have a girl on each arm and a charming grin on your face.”

“Charming, eh? You jealous?” I needled.

Stevie, you flushed from the tips of your ears to your neck. “I’m not jealous.”

“What, then?”

“You get one question, Buck. It’s your turn.”

“Fine. Truth.”

You grumbled. “Why do you keep setting us up?”

“Because if I didn’t, you’d sit at home all day, or worse, you’d go out looking for trouble. At least this way, I can keep an eye on you. Besides, you need to get out there. Any dame would be lucky to have you.”

You scoffed, crossed your arms. “Yeah, like they’d choose me over Bucky ‘Let Me Flash You a Grin and Melt You’ Barnes.”

I sat up then. “Shut up.”

“What?”

“Shut your damn mouth. _This_ is why I drag you out, Stevie. Truth or dare,” I snapped. Now it was a real challenge.

“Truth.”

“Why do you think you’re unworthy?”

You sat up, then, but you couldn’t look at me. “Stop it, Buck.”

“It’s your game, Stevie. You gotta answer.”

“I . . . don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Think I’m unworthy.”

“Bullshit. Try again.”

You balled your fists. “I’m not you, okay? I don’t know how to charm a gal, or how to be interesting.”

“No, you’re not me. You’re an artist. That’s interesting. Try again.”

“I’m not handsome or witty. I’m not even good at dancing.”

I grabbed the pillow and popped you in the face with it. “You could be if you ever got on the floor, punk. You’re smart; you’re passionate. You’re fearless.”

You shrugged. “Yeah, I am, but that isn’t what girls like. They like a handsome face, a good kisser.” You flopped a hand in the air. “They like you.”

I smirked. “And what makes you a judge of my kissing prowess?”

There went that flush again. My heart fluttered. “Your ladies all look satisfied.”

I inclined my head. Double dates were an excuse to spend more time with you. I knew it was wrong. I didn’t care. Why hadn’t you figured that out? “I’ve had no complaints. Maybe you just need advice. Step one, confidence.” Strike while the iron’s hot, Buck. I never had the confidence to tell you how I felt.

You looked at me, and I could see the calculations behind your eyes. You always got me into trouble, Stevie. And you took the bait like a champ. “What’s step two?” you asked. I raised my hands, the picture of innocence. “Come on, Bucky.”

“Gotta ask the right question.”

You rolled your eyes, deflating a bit. “You gonna tell me or not? Truth or dare?”

I arched a brow. “Dare.”

That set you back. Quick as the shock came, the devil followed. “You sure?”

“Did I stutter?”

You nodded, not just confident, but cocky. “Kiss me.”

I blinked. It was exactly what I wanted to hear, and still I hesitated. I’d thought about kissing you, thought-hoped-maybe you felt the same. That what we had was more than friendship, that you’d want it to be more. You always did surprise me. It was one thing to imagine, but hearing it? Damn.

“What? You chicken? You said dare,” you said, shoving me.

I folded my legs and came up on my knees, leaning into you. You didn’t flinch, didn’t move away. I curled my fingers behind your head, felt the shiver you tried to hide. And being the impatient shit you are, you pressed your mouth to mine.

Kissing gals and kissing guys is different in unexpected ways. Not that I had much in the way of comparison. There’s always a first, though. Fundamentally, the kissing’s the same: fumbling, awkward, finding a rhythm, whatever. You pulled back for a second, then stole another. My heart hammered against my chest so bad I thought you could feel it. Your hands found my face and held me there; my hand found your waist.

I think you were lying about never having kissed anyone before because you instigated. It’s fine, pal, if you don’t wanna tell me who it was, but your tongue flicked against my lips and you really went for it. I swear to God, Steve, Trouble is your middle name. I could have kissed you forever. I wanted to.

Instead, I pushed you away, cheeks flushed, my pants a bit tighter than I expected. You didn’t so much as bat an eye.

“So, step two, huh?”

I cleared my throat. “Something like that.”

You leaned forward, eyes dark, begging for another kiss. “And what’s the step after that?”

“Hey now, that was my dare,” I said, and I pushed you down into the cushions. “Which means you have two rounds now.”

“Dare,” left your mouth before I had the chance to ask.

You were goddamn fearless, Stevie. Dare it was.


	3. Chapter 3

I’m not sure what good this is doing. I’m knocking around in dreams, writing letters you’ll never read unless the serum made you a psychic. Considering the amount of shit you’re still gettin’ into, that’s clearly not the case. Considering you searched the world for years and couldn’t find me, or what’s left of me. I hate that Hydra saw that last one. It’s one of the good memories, but kindness and kisses don’t create a supersoldier. I was in love with you for years, but what they took outta that was fear. What if we were found out? What if my pop had come in and caught us necking? They took all that fear, the shame, wrapped it around their fists and twisted. Scraped out everything I felt for you.

The soldier knows nothing but obedience. In the end, it was far easier to give in, to embrace the darkness, the blank slate. Surrendering control was the path of least resistance. Wanna know a terrible secret, Steve?

Like anything I’ve said’s been less than a fucking nightmare, right?

I didn’t hate it. God, I wanted to, I should have, but I didn’t. I needed it. They tore me outta that chamber, suited me up, and set me loose, their prized hunting dog. I didn’t think, didn’t feel. Didn’t need to. Wasn’t part of the job.

Bucky Barnes rotted away in that cell, but the soldier’s the one who met _daybreak_ with a fistful of bullets and blood on his hands. The bodies piled at my feet go deep enough to fill a lake. Let’s get it all out in the open. Why not?

I remember every one of them.

Hydra wiped me a thousand times-cleared the soldier’s brain, not mine-and I see every last one. I hear their screams, their pleas for mercy, and every time, I pull the trigger, detonate the bomb, clean my knife on the edge of a shirt. It’s all still in here, Stevie.

Wipe him, electrocute him, shove him back into the icebox until we need to thaw him out again. Soldier? Who are you? Always a price for failure, for stepping out of line. Wipe him. Soldier? Again.

Every piece of me is frostbit and blackened.

Again.

Ever since your big transformation, since you rescued me, my world’s foundation is pain and the need to obey. That sounds like I’m blaming you, doesn’t it? Maybe I am.

Again.

Maybe I really did hate you, and maybe these are false memories and false feelings.

Again.

Everything hurts, so nothing does. And then I forgot what it was to feel anything else except the pain.

Again.

I am a soldier.

Again.

And again. And again.

I existed in the dead of night, the nightmare lurking in your head. You’re not gonna want to hear it, but there’s no sunrise for me. No normal life, no future. Hell, no past, not any more.

Again.

But I tried to hold on to it. When my mission was completed, my report given, when I was left alone, I scrabbled for every memory, gripping images even as they turned to dust. Buried under all that blood and gore, I was still there. I remembered dimly lit dance halls, the smell of the beach, a voice calling out to me. But they knew, Stevie, they knew when they were losing their hold on me, and I obeyed, but resentfully, wanting so badly to keep _any_ thought that wasn’t a notion they planted in my skull.

Again.

That’s the horror, right there. My new beginning. All the ways I tried to stay me and failed. I could lie to myself, but only if I remembered. I could sink my fingers into hope. 

If only I remembered.

Wipe him.

If.

Again.

Who are you?

I am a soldier.

Again.

I am an asset. A weapon. A means to an end.

Again.

I am a soldier.

My purpose is to comply.

*

There’s always a vaguely concealed threat. When I’m left out of cryo too long, my programming breaks down. Not enough to free me, not completely, but enough to spark that itch in my brain, in my blood. It feeds into muscle memory I thought atrophied decades ago. The ghosts remain long after the corpses rot away. Disobedience isn’t tolerated.

The procedure is about to begin.

They dragged me from the cage, and a slimy little man with a smarmy smile had them strap me to the operating table. Needles and wires and my blood drained into vials. The little man remarked on my tenacity, my loyalty. I’d been singled out for defending my men, my brothers, and all that venom landed me in the room that no one had come out of. Once they took you, you were gone.

Before the procedure, before the needle that let the monster out, they left me alone in the dark. Come to think of it, it’s a lot like my time in the icebox, except when I was still Bucky, I was awake and aware of what came before and after. I knew when I shipped out there was no going home. War isn’t an adventure; it’s watching everything-everyone-be ripped away from you. If it’s not bomb or bullet, then it’s those blue beams of death.

But they let me wind myself up. All I could think about was you. There’d be a letter sent to pop’s house, maybe a flag, but would he tell you? Would you hear it on the street, in passing? You’d wear that same suit you wore to your mom’s funeral, the shoulders too big, the pants too long, and you’d watch them bury an empty coffin.

That isn’t what happened. You fucking went after me.

The procedure is about to begin.

The needle slipped into my skin easy as anything. The moment the first drop of serum entered my veins, the _furnace_ was lit. It’s a sick heat, whether it’s on full incineration or smoldering beneath the surface. All that fire and strength inside me raged like an inferno. Didn’t you wonder, after you sprang me, how I went from being barely able to walk to crossing a pit of death over a tiny steel beam?

And after, when we’d returned, and they hailed you a hero, the fire didn’t burn out. It grew. 

We fought side by side, and what a pair we made. If I focused just right, I could pretend I’d stay there forever, with you, us against the world. But whatever they put in me leached that away. I know you saw it that day the Hydra agent snuck up on you, when I put a bullet in him to keep you safe. Did you know my crosshairs locked on you first? No, you couldn’t have known, but you did see the part of me I’d kept contained: the killer. You were always picking fights, and I was always ending them.

I burned so hot, Stevie, I thought I’d combust. The cold didn’t faze me. Nothing did, not any more. Nothing but you. 

When they dragged me out of the river and threw me back on the gurney, I’d all but burned away. I would have been long gone if it wasn’t for you. They wanted to see how far they could push me, when I’d break. Even after they’d gotten the soldier they wanted. The doctors scraped everything out and left me running on hate and fear, stoking those flames high as they could get ‘em.

I was a powder keg with a lit fuse, but as long as I remained useful, the explosion remained a distant threat. They made me an engine of death, but the price of failure, of disobedience, was just another furnace.

 

*

 

I remember in school, English or History or something, some lecture on Greek mythology maybe; don’t remember the teacher. I was busy passing notes to this pretty redhead in the back row. She had freckles and bright green eyes. Don’t remember her name, either, but we were making plans to go dancing; I was asking if she had a friend for you. I didn’t give the lesson a second thought until Hydra snatched me up in its claws. Cut off one head, two more replace it. Legend had it Hydra’s breath was poisonous (I can tell you that’s true-they spent a lot of time breathing down my neck), and its blood’s so toxic that just the smell of it was deadly.

Evading one head seems easy, right? Hydra has _nine_. Nine sets of fangs and nine sets of claws, and Hydra ain’t afraid of getting any of them dirty.

Remember when I taught you how to fight? You’d gotten a nice shiner, and I knew your mom would be livid. You told me you didn’t like bullies, but you seemed to like broken bones well enough. We ditched our bags, and I moved the furniture in the living room to make space.

“There are four rules to fighting: fists up, use your strength, anticipate.”

“Buck, that’s three,” you said.

I winked, rolling up my sleeves. “Fourth lesson is saved for last. Now, as far as you go, swap strength for agility. You can’t overpower me, but if you anticipate my move, you might outsmart me.”

“That isn’t exactly hard,” you said. I smirked, chuckled. Then I nearly punched you in the jaw. “Holy shit, Bucky! What gives?”

“Like I said, fists up.”

You caught on quick. It took you almost three hours, but eventually you landed a shot, feigning right and striking opposite.

“On your left,” you smirked.

I was baffled. The skin was already tender. “Look at you, Stevie. You did it.”

You dropped your hands to your knees, out of breath. “I could do this all day.”

“Sure, pal, but let’s call it quits for now. I’ll get you some water.” I headed for the kitchen, trying to shake that damn proud grin of yours outta my head. That might have been the moment I fell in love with you.

“Buck?” you called. I paused, looked back over my shoulder. “What’s the fourth rule?”

I smiled, rubbing my jaw. “If you’re gonna start a fight, Stevie, get in the first punch and make it count.”

Hydra doesn’t do brawling like we do in Brooklyn. It’s not brute strength, but deadly focus. Training with them is a death run they force you to make over and over. If you miss a mark, if you aren’t quick enough, if they don’t like the way you look, or if you flinch, you run the course again. Six weak points: elbows, knees, ankle, shoulders, neck, waist. It ain’t all that different from what I taught you. Apply pressure, strike, or cut down. For you, it was all in the pressure and the strike. Kick out behind the knee, strike at the ankle. Use your stature, lower their center of gravity, keep them off-balance.

It wasn’t as nice as the dance halls, but it was a dance, a rhythm my body knew. Nine ways Hydra used me as a weapon, nine heads barking orders. But when I didn’t comply, there were far more than nine ways to punish me.


	4. Chapter 4

“Hey, Buck?” you called. “Bucky?” I stared at the wall of the tent and didn’t move. “Are you asleep?” Of course I wasn’t asleep. I couldn’t blink without seeing the table, the restraints. The medics had given me a clean bill of health, but something was wrong. The fire they lit in me, burning hot and cold and making me sick. “Buck?”

“What is it, Steve?” I kept my back to you. Don’t look, don’t turn around. Would you notice if anything was wrong? You hadn’t, not yet.

“Sorry,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Bullshit.” I heard the rustle of your bedding. Captain America, muscle bound and leading an army, and you still shrunk back into your too small bedroll. “You didn’t wake me,” I amended. “What’s up?”

You shifted again. “Just thinking.”

“You’re taking up dangerous hobbies, Rogers.”

The soft chuckle from your side of the tent warmed my heart. I realized I’d felt cold since you rescued me. Isolated. The medics were wrong; no one could feel like hell and pass it off as wellness. Pretend it was all fine. Had to pretend for you. You still looked at me the same even though I was someone different.

“Remember when we were kids, and we’d pile the couch cushions on the floor? We’d stay up all night talking.”

I scoffed. “What I wouldn’t give for those cushions right about now. Never thought I’d be taking that for granted.”

“Yeah,” you said. “I miss that.” A pause. You got even quieter. I had to keep still to hear you. “I missed you.”

I searched the dark for the right thing to say and didn’t find it. _I missed you, too_. That would have worked. But the words stuck in my throat, choked me. To you, I was still your best friend. I wanted to be that guy, the boy from Brooklyn you’d grown up with, the one you thought was courageous and gentle and good.

“I’m sorry, Buck. I should have been here.”

I couldn’t stand your guilt. It ate away at me. I looked over at you, meeting your gaze in the dark. “There’s nothing to be sorry for. It wasn’t your fault. Hell, you threatened to walk to Austria on the off chance I was still alive. I owe you,” I said. Then I got up and dragged that poor excuse for a bed over to yours.

“Consider it repayment for the dozen times you’ve saved my ass.”

We were quiet for time, the silence edging on uncomfortable. I wanted to sleep, but I didn’t want the nightmares. You couldn’t sleep, either. You turned over, and I could feel your eyes on me.

“Truth or dare?”

I laughed for the first time since I shipped out. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

You nudged my shoulder. Just like when we were kids. But the floor of a tent in a war zone wasn’t the same as my living room, or our tiny Brooklyn apartment. And Hydra may have screwed around in my head, but I still remembered exactly what happened last time we played this game.

“Truth.”

I expected a cheeky question, some flirty statement that sent color across your face and down your neck. Instead, you said, “What do you think of me?”

“You’re an idiot with no sense of self-preservation and enough stupid to try to take on the world, and you’re the best man I know.” I turned my head. You weren’t looking at me, but up, and I could see the lines etched on your face, awaiting my judgment. “I ain’t too keen that you’re taller than me, though.” You didn’t laugh. “Is it permanent?”

“Looks like.”

I shrugged. “I don’t mind. It’s . . . different.” I studied you. Your brow furrowed. “You don’t like it.”

“It’s different,” you said. The fire in me struck hot. I hated you. That’s not exactly right: I loved you, but you didn’t need me, not anymore. I wanted you to need me.

You swallowed. “I mean, what do you think of me now?”

I propped myself up on my arm, irritated. “You got everything you wanted and you still feel unworthy. What the hell did I tell you last time?”

“It’s not that, Buck.”

“You’re fighting a war, you got a dame, you get to be the hero. You get to be in the spotlight. Told the army to go to hell, stormed the enemy’s castle, rescued all the prisoners-”

“Bucky.”

“What?”

“Do you still like me?”

My first instinct was to strangle you. Not in the playful, stop-being-stupid way, but with intent to harm. I bit back the nightmare, horrified at the image in my head, and dropped back onto the thin pillow. The serum made you a freaking ray of sunlight while I wallowed in shadows. I struggled to find the man I was before Hydra got hold of me. “Of course I do, you idiot. You’re my best friend. I’m with you to-“

“The end of the line, I know,” you muttered.

“Truth or dare?”

“Truth.” Not the answer I wanted.

“What do you think of me?” I asked, wanted to take it back before the question finished leaving my mouth. I wasn’t good anymore. I was poisoned.

“You’re a miracle, Bucky.”

I almost laughed, but the sincerity in your voice broke my heart. “You’re the only one who believes that.” _You’re the only one who matters_.

“Doesn’t make it less true. You’re unbreakable, determined. You’re my anchor, Buck.”

You’d always been mine. My purpose, my reason for living. “Shut up, Steve.” You didn’t need me.

“You shut up.” You were angry now, sitting up, as petulant as when we were kids. “You are worth saving. I’d do it all over again, every time.”

I chuckled. “Can we skip the torture?” A bad joke. “I don’t want to do it again. Ever.”

“And you won’t have to. Not as long as I’m around. Truth or dare?”

I hoped playing would make me feel better, lighten the weight on my shoulders. “Truth.”

The truth is Hydra didn’t make me hate you. It was already there. I felt their poison in my blood, my jealousy at everyone finally seeing what I’d seen all along. I’d always been petty when it came to you.

“You lied to me about enlisting.”

“That’s not a question, Steve.” You were back to watching me. I sighed. “I was drafted.”

“I know. When I found you, you were reciting your serial number.”

I wanted to move along. I didn’t want to talk about it. Didn’t want you to know. “Wasted turn. Truth or dare?”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you insisted.

“Because I didn’t want to go!” I snapped. “I watched you try and fail, and try again. I didn’t want to go and I didn’t want you to think I was a coward. I’m not afraid of fighting, Stevie. Hell, I taught you how, but you never did know when to stop. First the back alley bullies, now Nazi fucking Germany.”  
You shook your head. “I don’t think you’re a coward. And I know I can’t take on the world, not without you. You aren’t yourself,” you said. “I know it’s in part because of what Hydra did to you.”

I shook my head. “I already told you, you’ve nothing to feel guilty about.”

“That doesn’t make it stop, Bucky.” You turned to face me, touched my cheek. I recoiled. You gripped my arm, and after a moment, traced your way to my hand, lacing our fingers together. “You don’t have to hide from me.”

Something in my chest broke. “I’m not hiding.” You knew I was lying, didn’t you? “You’ve got your gal.”

“We’re not . . . committed. And it’s always been you, Buck. Everything’s been for you. You spent most of our lives defending me, protecting me. You’d support me until your legs broke and your lungs collapsed.” You shifted closer, so close your lips nearly brushed mine. “Lean on me. Let me take the burden.”

I wanted to cross that tiny divide and find myself on solid ground. Damn it, I wanted to, Steve; but I made you do it instead. “You gonna pick dare or what?”

Then your mouth was on mine, hesitant until I managed to thread my fingers through your hair and pull you closer. Your lips tasted just the same, the same mouth I’d kissed a thousand times before, and not the same at all. I drank you in, reclaiming my ground with teeth and tongue. You shifted your weight and that was a whole new experience, your weight pressing down on me where once you’d been light as a feather. I gave you the lead.

Surrendering was a mistake.

It wasn’t your hand at my wrist, but leather restraints, my back against the cold, hard operating table. Electricity sparked along my nerves, coated my tongue. I swear to God, you could taste it but you didn’t flinch. You were so gentle and cautious, and I couldn’t fucking stand it.

Pinning you to the ground was easier than I’d thought, and you responded like a goddamn dream. You parted those glorious lips and I swallowed the groan that raced up your throat. Stevie, you matched me blow for blow, and when I pressed my hips into yours, I thought you’d shatter on the spot. I relished the idea of being the only man alive capable of disarming Captain America, and you, baby doll, were begging me to do it. The way your breath hitched when I nipped along your jaw was as close to perfection as I’d get.

My skin burned wherever it touched yours and I drank in every second, but the fire they’d lit in me burned right alongside it. You seemed at home in my darkness, and damn it if I didn’t want it to consume you, too. Take down the great hero of the war, ruin him, poison you the way they’d poisoned me. You moaned, much louder, and I clamped my hand around your mouth, fingers digging in. Every nerve in my body screamed for me to tear you apart as I moved down the column of your throat, a hard suck at the soft skin beneath your ear, grazing you with my teeth.

Playing rough was nothing new for us, and I wanted to bruise you, mark you as mine. I sank my teeth into the meat of your shoulder, locked my jaw, and crushed.

“Jesus Christ, Buck!”

Before I could blink, I was sitting back on my heels. Your hand pressed into your shoulder, a look of bewilderment on your pretty sculpted face. My breath came in ragged gasps. In the dark, I could just make out a darker shade on your fingers and the sleeve of your shirt. I ran my tongue along the edge of my teeth. Holy shit.

I moved my bed away from yours and turned on my side, bringing the blanket up around me like a shield.

“Bucky. Buck, it’s all right.”

Your hand brushed against my back; I recoiled. “Don’t.” 

“I’m not angry. I just want you to talk to me.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, holding my breath until you gave up, but you only dragged your bed to mine and settled back in. You didn’t touch me. How could you stand to? The fire under my skin burned so hot, I thought I’d burn away to ash. I wasn’t good anymore. I wasn’t _benign_. I wasn’t like you, honest and radiant. I was toxic, lethal.

After all, how hard do you have to bite to make a supersoldier bleed?


	5. Chapter 5

I wish my memory had windows instead of holes. I try to fill the gaps, but nothing quite fits, you know? I got a box of scattered puzzle pieces that belong to different times, different versions of me. There’s the soldier, cold, unfeeling, cutting his way through time, leaving a trail of blood. There’s Sergeant Barnes of the 107th, expert sniper and marksman. There’s the man you pulled outta that Hydra camp, not yet the soldier, but not your Bucky either. Then there’s that cocky kid from Brooklyn with the easy smile, the quick wit, the foul mouth. The one who fell for his best friend, the one who lied to protect him, the one who unwillingly went to war.

The moment I stepped out in London, I knew there was no _homecoming_ for me. When you showed up, larger than life and pissed as hell, a goddamn avenging Atlas, I thought maybe. But home had come to me. You were always home, Stevie. All I’d wanted was for things to be like they were: you and me, side by side. Back in our apartment, working odd jobs. You’d go to art school, work for an agency. It’d be a quiet life, but it’d be ours.

If anyone could pull it off, it’d be us.

I kept that daydream alive when I was in that cage or strapped to their table.

When you showed up, America’s hero and golden boy, I realized home was different. Home was the war, the reason we could be with each other. No one batted an eye, said a word. I had a purpose, a reason to live. I had you. Part of me never wanted the war to end because once it did we had to face the world again. You’d be a decorated vet; you’d go off with your gal, have a brood of gorgeous children. And me? Well, I didn’t know what I’d do. Marriage and kids and all that didn’t really suit me anymore.

And then home changed again. Home was an icy cryochamber in an icy land where everything was dead and nothing ever grew or changed except the faces of my handlers and the voice in my ear. Home was the sound of a bullet sliding into the chamber, the edge of a knife.  
Sometimes, though, when they left me out too long, the holes in my memory filled with a skyline I almost recognized. A different voice I could barely hear. A name that I couldn’t find, but knew the size and shape of.

Home was the static taste of electricity, the press of metal against my head. Home was the machine they stitched in, welded on in place of my arm. Home was ten words that called me into action and gave me a purpose, even if that purpose was a fucking horror show.

When you showed up, six words reminded me of the home I’d forgotten. The one I thought I’d never see again. I knew where that skyline was; I knew your voice, and you said the name I hadn’t been able to shake. And the soldier panicked. Ran back to what he thought was home, back to the people he hated because he served them. I ran across the world, wishing I could cut the threads urging me back to Russia, struggling to resist the command I’d been given: obey.

I remembered you.

Laughing on the fire escape, talking our way into the Dodgers game; you sulking in the dance hall with your sketchbook.

I remembered where I wanted to be.

I knew you wanted to dance. I wanted to dance with you, but we couldn’t, not in public, so I pushed what little furniture we had aside and made us a dance floor in the apartment. You lit up like a sunbeam and I wanted to drown in it.

I wanted to see the sun set over the city with my best guy at my side.

I just wanted to go home.

 

*

Remember when I told you sometimes I hear you in the other room? There is no other room. There’s only me. Isolated. Alone. It’s worse than thinking I’m still in Hydra’s icebox or strapped to their table. That I never left the Hydra camp, that all of this is some sick hallucination because the world is sick, because I am sick. Knowing I can’t get to you, reach you, makes me wish it would all just end.

_One_.

One mission.

One purpose.

One asset.

I was the first they made. I wasn’t the last. None of the others were given a gift like mine, like my arm, but they didn’t need it. They were faster, better, the top assassins and agents Hydra had. The doctors demanded more. I trained them, I fought them. And most of them bested me. I was the first, and the rest were better, but the scientists couldn’t control them like they controlled me. Too much unbridled rage, too much fire. I’d always been bent on protecting, defending. The other winter soldiers were nothing but hate.

They lacked heart.

Hydra saw mine was broken first. They cut me down. They dehumanized me. I wasn’t one soldier, I was one machine. One weapon. Issued one command, executed it, returned. Give one report. Back in my box until the next. One soldier. If I died, so what? They’d make more. They already had. One more round, one more mission, one more time.


	6. Chapter 6

They always save the worst for last. Did you know words have a flavor, Steve? A color? They can. I can’t think them without a bitter taste coating my tongue, a sting in the back of my throat. Sharp white snow, iron and blood, down, down, down, down. I hate the way it feels when I say it; it scalds and scrapes and sears. The pressure’s unbearable. Needles and pins pierce me from every angle, inside and out.

That’s the one that killed me. That’s the one that did what the fall, the river, could not.

_Freight car, freight car, freight car._

Grinding metal, terror, agony. Those were the first signs, the beginning of it all, the mess of my memory, the origin of my monstrosity.

That’s what they don’t want you to find out. That’s the deep, dark, dirty secret. Monsters are real, Stevie. Don’t give me that look. You’ve seen them out in the world. They don’t lurk beneath the bed. There’s no boogeyman in the closet. The real monsters live inside us, waiting to get out.

You’ve seen them.

You’ve seen me.

There’s some quote about staring into the abyss and the darkness looking back. It’s seen me, too. And here I keep on staring because there’s nothing left to do. The doctors dragged me out of the ice. They took my arm. They rebuilt me from metal and pain and anger.

They asked me about the fall. Over and over. The only image seared into my skull was the horror on your face, your hair lit and golden, the panic in your eyes and your lips forming my name. All that love and sorrow balled into one, and they turn it into betrayal.

How could you let me fall, Stevie? It was your idea, taking that train. For someone who claimed he loved me, you sure fancied risking my life when it suited you. You knew I’d follow you. Always had. Knew I’d take a bullet for you, fight for you, defend you. 

You let me die.

I held on to the railing, I reached for you, and you didn’t reach back. You stared at me like you didn’t know who I was. I gave you everything and you gave me nothing.

No, no, no, that’s not true, not real. I tried to take your hand. I saw your pain when I slipped through your fingers.

Why didn’t you come after me? Were you tired of rescuing me? Was it easier to shrug me off and enjoy the rest of your life? Is that why you left me to die? You’d walk across the goddamn world if it meant you might find me alive. Did you even try? And then they told me about you, and the plane, and the Arctic. And I knew you weren’t coming for me.

So they eradicated you from my memory.

After all, my devotion, my love for you is what kept me _me_. Naturally, you had to die. And when they were sure I wouldn’t know you and wouldn’t care, they sent me to do the job for real.

I was ready to kill you, Stevie. They’d been preppin’ me my whole life for the moment I’d wrap my metal hand around your throat and squeeze until you gasped, choking on blood as I broke you, snuffin’ out the flame in those baby blues. I damn near did it, too. You were my mission, but you called out to me and I heard you. I fucking heard you through seventy years of my brain spinnin’ in a blender, I heard you in the cold, the dark.

The part of me that loved you-still loves you-the part I thought had curled up and died decades ago, it sank in its claws and refused to be smothered. I stole a journal somewhere and vowed I’d never forget another thing. I gathered the bloodstained puzzle pieces and started stitching my brain back together. I couldn’t shake it, though, the way they made me hate you.

They said you never loved me. That you let me die because that’s what soldiers do. I gave you my heart and you crushed it. But that didn’t happen, Stevie. The things they told me, the things in the dark, they’re not real.

 

And I don’t want to be afraid of the dark anymore.


	7. Chapter 7

Steve’s jaw slackened as he stared at the glass of the cryochamber. He’d been there so long the sun had set, just as frozen as his friend. He hadn’t been able to visit Bucky as often as he’d promised. He missed their one-sided conversations, imagined a day when the man he loved opened his eyes and answered. Bucky hadn’t moved-of course he hadn’t moved, he slept-but hundreds of words spilled over the glass, scratched into the frost. Backward.

He ran a hand over them, surprised when they didn’t melt away under the heat of his palm. No, they wouldn’t. The letters were inside the chamber, the writing on the walls. He wasn’t talking to himself after all. Steve stared at the freshest sentence, one not coated over in ice, clear as if it’d just been written. The words were Russian.

“Soldat, gotov otvechat’?” Steve muttered.

The harder he looked, the more Steve saw. The phrase repeated itself across the glass, sometimes nearly obliterated by the frost, barely visible. But it was the one before him now that set the fluttering in his heart.

_Soldat, gotov otvechat’? Soldier, are you ready to comply?_

Fingermarks slashed through the letters, a single word in English cut above them.

_No._

Hands shaking, Steve set the cryochamber to thaw, then rushed out of the room to gather a few things, namely blankets and towels. Bucky was ready. He had to be. Steve bounced on his feet as he waited, the hiss of fog and the crack of ice filling his ears, but he only had eyes for Bucky. He could help him. He could get Hydra out of Bucky’s head.

The glass began to clear, distorting Bucky’s secrets. Steve watched the monitors recording Bucky’s vital signs. So far, so good. The screens beeped as he inhaled, the ticking line of his heartbeat gaining speed. Ice melted, dripped down his face, into his eyes. Bucky shook his head, not quite awake.  
A sharp sound from the monitor indicated a spike in Bucky’s pulse. Steve stepped forward as the glass tube slid away, taking what words the defrosting process hadn’t. 

“Bucky? Hey, it’s Steve,” he said, voice soft.

Bucky went to raise his hands to whisk the water from his eyes but only one hand touched his face. Steve steadied him; luckily the bands were still in place. Bucky’s teeth chattered, and Steve patted at his friend’s face with the towel.

Bucky groaned, groggy, and tried to push him away. “What the hell?” he muttered. “Where the hell . . . Steve? What’s going on?”

“You’ve been asleep a while, almost a year. How are you feeling?”

“Fucking freezing,” Bucky snapped.

Steve tossed the towel over Bucky’s hair and snatched up a blanket, wrapping it around his shoulders, tucking the ends so Bucky wouldn’t have to hold it. Steve settled another blanket over top. “Better?”

Bucky closed his eyes again, looking like he’d rather go back to sleep. “I guess. What have you done now?”

Confusion flashed across Steve’s face. “What do you mean?”

“You don’t bother with me unless you’re in trouble.”

“Oh.” Steve’s shoulders dropped. “There’s no trouble. I mean, half the world still hates me and I’m not an Avenger anymore, but I’ve been dealt worse.”  
Bucky arched a brow. “Last time, I was gone for two weeks and you put a plane into the Arctic.”

“Fair point, but I promise you, I’m not in trouble.”

Bucky didn’t answer, just hunched further into the blankets. Steve wanted to pull him close, rub his arm while Bucky warmed up to the world again. His focus was locked on the massive windows and the view of the lush forest beyond. Steve licked his lips, debating what to say. Bucky had the same lost look from when he’d entered the cryotube.

“Hey, I’ve got an idea,” Steve said.

Bucky furrowed his brow, worked his jaw, and turned to face his best friend. “Steven fucking Rogers, did you wake me up to play a stupid game of truth or dare?”

Steve’s focus softened. “You remember?”

“Of course I fucking remember.”

“Then you know we’re about seventy years overdue for another round.”

Bucky stretched, unraveling his blankets. “I thought you were gonna wake me when you figured out how to unscramble my brain.” He looked around the facility, his gaze finally landing on the couch cushions piled on the floor. 

Steve watched the remaining letters on the glass melt. “I think I know how.” He gestured to the door, to Bucky’s handwriting on the inside of the glass. Bucky paled. “You always did choose truth.”

“I did all that?” He approached the cryotube, eyes scanning. He swallowed. “You read all of it?”

Steve nodded. “Yeah, Buck.” He settled his hand on Bucky’s good shoulder. “It’s a lot to take in. I’m sorry.”

“Already told you, it’s not your fault.”

“I did search for you, after the fall.” Bucky’s shoulders tensed as Steve spoke. “I never forgave myself for failing you. Waking up in the future made everything hurt so much more. But then we were thrown together again, and I swore this time I’d do better by you.”

“I wanna go home,” Bucky muttered.

Steve put his arm around Bucky’s shoulders. “You get to decide where home is. This can be home,” he said, failing to hide the faint blush in his cheeks. “If you want it to be. You can start over.” _We can start over, if you want._

The muscles along Bucky’s jaw tightened. “I don’t remember doing any of that,” he said, nodding at the words on the glass, “but I remember feeling it. All the rage and hate. What they made me do. What I did.”

“But now you have two things you didn’t before, Buck. You have the power to choose.”

Bucky offered him a wry smile. “That’s one thing, Rogers.”

“The second is also a choice. You have me. And I meant what I said: you can lean on me. Let me take the burden. I’ll carry it. That is, if you want me to.” Steve ducked his head. “I know we can’t just go back to the way things were, and I guess some of those things you may not have wanted me to know, but I want to start again. If you want to.”

Bucky considered him a moment before nodding. “I don’t hate you. I’m . . . grateful. You gave me something to hold on to, something that was mine, something I could keep. I’ve missed you. Punk,” he added.

“Jerk.” Steve jostled him. “And, uh, you were. My first kiss. In case you still wondered.” He flushed. “I learned watching you. I never stopped, you know. Loving you. Being in love with you.”

“Turns out neither did I.” Bucky shivered, drawing the blankets tighter. “You really think you can get them outta my head?”

He nodded. “We’re, uh, gonna have to talk about those memories, but it can wait until you’ve thawed out. We’ve got time.”

“Shit,” Bucky swore. He sat down, blowing out a breath. “What do we do now?”

Steve toed the cushions before taking a seat beside the man he loved, finally awake and answering. “Well, according to the old rules, it’s my turn.”

Bucky eyed him, then the makeshift bed behind them. His silence sent butterflies fluttering in the pit of Steve’s stomach. Bucky slid his gaze back to Steve’s.

“So you gonna choose dare or what?”


End file.
